Never To Be Forgotten
by missallyrose
Summary: The effects of the Battle of Hogwarts on a certain George Weasley. To be warned: this is sad. The saddest thing I have ever written. But I smiled at the end.


_Pale, bloodless, dead._

The figure slumped onto his messy bed, running his hands through his ruffled red hair. He refused to look at the empty bed next to him, the Gryffindor banner above it, the smiling picture of Angelina Johnson tacked to the wall.

_Pale, bloodless, dead_.

He refused to look at the boxes hidden under their beds, experiments from the early days of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. He couldn't bear looking at the multitude of colorful sweaters hanging, untouched, in the closet, all bearing one letter: _F_.

_Pale, bloodless, dead._

He had long ago turned the picture of the two of them on it's face. He couldn't see it. He constantly turned his back to the other half of his childhood room, the place that he had grown up. But not alone; he had never been alone.

_Pale, bloodless, dead._

He was numb. He had always been numb, ever since that day. Oh, through his good ear he could hear the muffled sobs of his mother, the wails of his sister, the sniffles of his younger brother. But he never shed a tear; no sound came from this half-empty room. That wasn't the correct term, half-empty. It was empty. For even though there was a breathing person in there, very much alive in the literal sense, he wasn't living. Not at all.

_Pale, bloodless, dead_.

The house had come and gone with well-wishers: Lee Jordan, Bill and a teary-eyed Fleur, a somber Charlie, and even Angelina Johnson, begging and crying to be let in, for him to hold her, for him to comfort her. He closed the door in her face. He shut himself away from all of them.

_Pale, bloodless, dead._

He was wasting away. His food sat untouched. His mother cried for him to come out, for him to speak, for him to cry, even. She said he needed closure, she said they all did. He didn't believe her.

_Pale, bloodless, dead_.

He told himself he never revisited that night. But he lied, he was constantly back at Hogwarts, back to that night. He lived in that memory. He constantly felt the pain of having half of himself ripped away; half of himself gone forever. The other half of him was fading, too.

_Pale, bloodless, dead_.

They were all afraid of this, of course. They all wanted him, they all _needed_ him. He thought they didn't. He thought that he was a constant reminder of the pain, of the loss. He thought that he only reminded them of their lost family member. He was lying of course. He only felt that way about himself.

_Pale, bloodless, dead._

Others had died that night, others who didn't deserve it. Tonks and Lupin had left a child behind. Moody, though old, gave his life for the one who would save them all. Dobby, even, little terrified Dobby, had died for the cause of Harry Potter.

_Pale, bloodless, dead_.

He looked, slowly, at the mirror hanging on the closed door. Reflected in it was the face of death, the very face of misery and sadness. It was the face of mourning, the face of a boy who very much needed happiness. But that's not what he saw. He only saw his brother.

_Pale, bloodless, dead. _

He smashed his fist into the glass, right where the face was, and ignored the pain of the glass in his fist. The mirror shattered into pieces, the reflection distorting and falling away. He sank to his knees into the carpet of shattered glass. He hid his face in his bleeding hands. But he did not cry. He did not break down.

_Pale, bloodless, dead._

He heard a faint voice in his ear, a faint tugging at his heart. He heard a voice so familiar he wanted to laugh and cry and scream all at once. But he didn't believe it. He had seen the body with his own eyes. Looking over his shoulder, there was no one there. No freckle-faced, gangly boy, with wrinkled clothes and a mischievous grin. He was greeted only with the sight he had stubbornly refused to look at for three weeks, the other half of the room. Someone was knocking at the locked door of the bedroom, begging to come in.

_Pale, bloodless, dead._

The pain rushed back in a huge tidal wave that he had no control over, and all the hollowness he had built up over the weeks could do nothing to stop it. He heard the voice again. It asked him what he was doing. He ignored it. He tried to ignore it with all of his night, but once more he revisited that dreadful night.

_Pale, bloodless, dead._

They were standing over something, a mass of redheads and black cloaks. He was trying to see what was happening, he knew it was something dreadful. He rushed through the crowd of Weasleys. There, at the middle of the circle, was someone with his face, with his eyes, with his hair, with all of his freckles. Someone slightly shorter than him. Someone he grew up with. Someone who initiated snowball fights with him. Someone who completed him. Someone who he was never without. He crumpled to his knees, his eyes unfocused and blank. Blank, but dry. Always dry.

_Pale, bloodless, dead._

Feeling as if a very dull dagger was plunged into his heart, twisting and carving and tearing him to pieces, he asked the voice what it wanted. What it wanted him to remember, what it wanted him to see. He begged the haunting voice to leave him alone, to let him be. At the door, more knocks were heard, more cries, more pleading.

_Pale, bloodless, dead. _

He delved into his memory, desperately wanting the pain to stop. He didn't know that that was what he wanted. He didn't know he wanted anything. He had lived as a shell.

_Pale, bloodless, dead._

He saw himself, as if detached from his body, shaking at the sight of the pale body of a boy in front of him. A boy who never took anything seriously. A boy who never cried. A boy who never saw the bad in the world. A boy who was never without a joke. A boy who never gave up on Angelina Johnson.

_Pale, bloodless, dead._

He saw the freckled face, the closed blue eyes that would never see again. The limp hands that would never hold hands with Angelina, that would never hold the Beater's Bat, that would never concoct another new prank with his brother. He looked at the ears that would never again hear, the nose that would never again smell, the lips that would never again laugh. But something was on those pale lips, something that he had never noticed before.

_Noble, brave, smiling_.

A trace of a smile.

_Noble, brave, smiling._

All at once, the wave of pain and grief came back, three times worse than ever. But something came with it; relief. Relief and happiness and memories and laughter. Relief and happiness and memories and laughter that washed away his numbness. Relief and happiness and memories and laughter that filled every hollow spot of his being.

_Noble, brave, smiling._

Images flashed across his closed eyes. Two freckly boys trying to hide their laughter as they watched a prank unfold. Two freckly boys handing Harry Potter the Marauder's Map. Two freckly boys navigating the twisting passageways of Hogwarts. Two freckly boy beaming as one of them asked Angelina Johnson to the Yule Ball.

_Noble, brave, smiling._

He opened his eyes and his chapped lips twisted into a ghost of a smile. A ghost of a smile so identical to the one his brother wore the night he passed. A ghost of a smile reflected a million times in the shards of glittering glass on the floor. More pounds on the door.

_Noble, brave, smiling._

The ghost of a smile soon was drenched with tears, silent tears of closure. Silent tears of love. Silent tears of memories of a never-to-be-forgotten brother.

_Noble, brave, smiling._

Teary-faced and smiling, he unlocked the door and let his family in.


End file.
